Yorkshire Lyrics Part 38

Well, nah then, aw've th' foir to leet,-- It will'nt tak long will'nt that, An as sooin as its gotten burned breet, Aw'il fry some puttates up i' fat.

Aw know aw'm a stunner to cook,-- Guys-hang-it! this kinlin's damp!

It does nowt but splutter an smook, An this Hue's ov a varry poor stamp.

It's lukkin confaandedly black,-- Its as dismal an dull as mi hat; Nah, Sal leets a foir in a crack,-- Aw will give her credit for that.

Ther's nowt nicer nor taties when fried,-- Aw could ait em to ivvery meal; Aw can't get 'em, altho' aw've oft tried,-- Its some trouble aw know varry weel.

Th' foirs aght! an it stops aght for me!

Aw'il bother noa mooar wi' th' old freet!

Next time they set off for a spree, They'st net leeav me th' foir to leet.

Aw dooant care mich for coffee an teah, Aw can do wi' some milk an a cake; An fried taties they ne'er seem to me, Worth th' bother an stink 'at they make.

Whear's th' milk? Oh, its thear, an aw'm blest, That cat has its heead reight i'th' pot; S'cat! witta! A'a, hang it aw've missed!

If aw hav'nt aw owt to be shot!

An th' pooaker's flown cleean throo a pane; It wor fooilish to throw it, that's true; Them 'at keep sich like cats are insane, For aw ne'er see noa gooid 'at they do.

Aw think aw'il walk aght for a while, But, bless us! mi shooin isn't blackt!

Aw'm net used to be sarved i' this style, An aw think at ther's somdy gooan crackt.

It doesn't show varry mich thowt, When aw'm left wi' all th' haasewark to do, For fowk to set off an do nowt, Net soa mich as to blacken a shoe.

It'll be dinner time nah varry sooin,-- An ther's beefsteaks i'th' cubbord aw know; But aw can't leet that foir bi nooin, An aw can't ait beefsteak when its raw.

Aw tell'd Sal this morn 'at shoo'd find, A rare appet.i.te up i' that Glen; An aw think if aw dooant change mi mind, Aw shall manage to find one misen.

Aw wor fooilish to send 'em away, But they'll ha to do th' best at they can; But aw'st feel reight uneasy all th' day,-- Wimmen's net fit to goa baght a man.

They've noa nooation what prices to pay, An they dooant know th' best places to call; Aw'il be bun it'll cost 'em to-day, What wod pay my expences an all.

It luks better, aw fancy, beside, When a chap taks his family raand; Nah, suppooas they should goa for a ride, An be pitched ovver th' brig an be draand.

Aw ne'er should feel happy ageean, If owt happen'd when aw wor away; An to leeav 'em i' danger luks meean, Just for th' sake o' mi own quiet day.

Aw could catch th' train at leeavs abaat nooin; E'e, gow! that'll be a gooid trick!

An aw'st get a gooid dinner for gooin, An th' foir can goa to old Nick.

Its a pity to miss mi quiet day, But its better to do that 'at's reight; An it matters nowt what fowk may say, But a chap mun ha summat to ait,

La.s.s o'th Haley Hill.

O winds 'at blow, an flaars 'at grow, O sun, an stars an mooin!

Aw've loved yo long, as weel yo know, An watched yo neet an nooin.

But nah, yor paars to charm all flee, Altho' yor bonny still, But th' only beauty i' mi e'e, Is th' la.s.s o'th Haley Hill.

Her een's my stars,--her smile's my sun, Her cheeks are rooases bonny; Her teeth like pearls all even run, Her brow's as fair as onny.

Her swan-like neck,--her snowy breast,-- Her hands, soa seldom still; Awm fain to own aw love her best,-- Sweet la.s.s o'th' Haley Hill.

Aw axt her i' mi kindest tone, To grant mi heart's desire; A tear upon her eyelid shone,-- It set mi heart o' foir.

Wi' whispers low aw told mi love, Shoo'd raised her droopin heead; Says shoo, "Awm sooary for thi lad, But awm already wed; An if awr Isaac finds thee here,-- As like enuff he will,-- Tha'll wish 'at tha wor onnywhear, Away throo th' Haley Hill.

Ditherum Dump.

Ditherum dump lived i'th' haase behund th' pump, An he grummel'd throo mornin to neet, On his rig he'd a varry respectable hump, An his nooas end wor ruddy an breet.

His een wor askew an his legs knock-a-kneed, An his clooas he could don at a jump; An th' queerest old covey 'at ivver yo seed, Wor mi naybor old Ditherum Dump.

Ditherum Dump he lived behund th' pump, An he grummel'd throo mornin to neet; An he sed fowk neglect one they owt to respect, An blow me, if aw think 'at its reet!

Yo mun know this old Ditherum lived bi hissen, For he nivver had met wi' a wife; An th' la.s.ses all sed they'd have nooan sich like men, For he'd worrit 'em aght o' ther life.

But he grinned as he caanted his guineas o' gold, An he called hissen "Jolly old trump!"

An he sed, "tho' awm ugly, an twazzy, an old, Still ther's lots wod bi Mistress Dump."

Ditherum Dump,--Jolly old trump!

Tho' tha'rt net varry hansum to th' seet, Yet ther's monny a la.s.s wod be fain o' mi bra.s.s, For mi guineas are bonny an breet.

Soa he gethered his gold till he grew varry old, Wi' noa woman to sweeten his life; Till one day a smart la.s.s chonced his winder to pa.s.s.

An he cried, "That's the wench for my wife!"

Soa he show'd her his bags runnin ovver wi' gold, An he axt her this question reight plump; "Tho' awm ugly an waspish, an getten soa old, Will ta come an be my Mistress Dump?"

"For Mistress Dump shall have gold in a lump, If tha'll tak me for better or worse;"

Soa shoo says, "Awm yor la.s.s, if yo'll leeav me yor bra.s.s, An aw'll promise to mak a gooid nurse."

Soa Ditherum Dump an this young la.s.s gate wed, An th' naybors cried, "Shame! Fie,--for--shame!"

But shoo cared net a b.u.t.ton for all at they sed, For shoo fancied shoo'd played a safe game.

Then Ditherum sickened an varry sooin deed, An he left her as rich as a Jew, An shoo had a big tombstun put ovver his heead, An shoo went into black for him too.

Nah, Mistress Dump, soa rooasy an plump, In a carriage gooas ridin up th' street; An th' la.s.ses sin then all luk aght for old men, An they're crazy to wed an old freet.

My Polly.

My Polly's varry bonny, Her een are black an breet; They shine under her raven locks, Like stars i'th' dark o'th' neet.

Her little cheeks are like a peach, 'At th' sun has woo'd an missed; Her lips like cherries, red an sweet, Seem moulded to be kissed.

Her breast is like a drift o' snow, Her little waist's soa thin, To clasp it wi' a careless arm Wod ommost be a sin.

Her little hands an tiny feet, Wod mak yo think shoo'd been Browt up wi' little fairy fowk To be a fairy queen.